I don't like how I cry;
how my lower lip
curves over my upper
creating a commical resemblance
to cartoons.

I don't like how I cry;
how my nose gets wide,
so wide it hurts.
I almost want to stop
but I can't.

I don't like how I cry;
how my eyes get red
like tomatoes bursting
through the tip of my fingers,
lying dead.

I don't like how I cry;
because I don't like what I
cry about.

I cry about perfection,
about attaining impossible,
about grasping fantasy,
and believing it's mine.

I cry about failing
though I've never even
fallen.
I cry about losing
though I've always been
first.